


Twilight on the River

by wendymr



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Close friendship/pre-slash, Episode Related, Post-Wild Justice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-04 01:21:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2904092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymr/pseuds/wendymr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I want to go for a walk.” He nods towards the river. “Do you have time?”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twilight on the River

**Author's Note:**

  * For [red2013](https://archiveofourown.org/users/red2013/gifts).



> For Red2013, who left me a prompt in a comment on an older fic, and written in gratitude for all the support you give Lewis authors. You're a valued part of our fandom!
> 
> And with huge thanks and appreciation to the wonderful Divingforstones, who set me straight on this when I was losing my way.

_My restless blood now lies a-quiver,_  
Knowing that always, exquisitely,  
This April twilight on the river  
Stirs anguish in the heart of me.  
— Rupert Brooke, _Blue Evening_ , 1909

* * *

“So, we’re both staying on, then? Is that it?” Robbie tilts his head in enquiry at James as they’re finishing their second pints. 

“If you’re absolutely sure, sir.” James sounds utterly sincere — and utterly non-committal so far as his own wishes on the subject go. Would he actually prefer this research fellowship? He had said how much he’d liked St Gerard’s, and he’d obviously made a connection with Joanne Pinnock. Robbie’s never before known James to make disclosures about his past to complete strangers, yet, having talked to the professor for all of about ten minutes, he’d told her about the seminary. Could’ve knocked Robbie over with a feather when Pinnock had mentioned that.

“I’d like to know what you want.” Robbie sets his empty glass down and looks straight across at James. “I don’t have to be the one to make the decision.”

“I thought that’s how it works.” A faint, impish smile flits across James’s face for a split second. “You Inspector, me bagman. _Theirs not to reason why; Theirs but to do and die_.” Robbie gives him a speaking look. “I want...” James pauses, drains his pint and rests his glass on the table. “I want to go for a walk.” He nods towards the river. “Do you have time?”

Robbie snorts. “Let me check my social calendar.” He pretends to think. “Yeah, think I can fit that in. You wanting to work up an appetite for dinner back here?”

The pleased look on James’s face tells Robbie he’s said the right thing.

* * *

They stroll along the river-bank, the golden glow of the sunset on the far side of the river casting interesting light and shade on the water and trees as they walk. Robbie listens with half an ear and the occasional amused or sceptical interjection as James muses on ecumenism, the making of Italian wine and the history of Church-sponsored permanent private halls at Oxford. 

Sometimes, Robbie wonders what Val would have made of this contradiction in terms he’s ended up with as his sergeant. So intelligent, and yet at times misses the obvious. Perfectly charming and with immaculate manners, but at the same time an awkward bloody sod. The most talented junior officer Robbie’s ever worked with, but who seems to feel out of place in policing. Outwardly confident, yet so uncertain of his place in the world around him.

In the world, but not of it — isn’t that the expression? Though, despite James’s background, and the fact that he’s come close to accepting a job that’d take him back to the world of theology, he doesn’t seem to be especially religious these days. Likes visiting churches, but he’s not... devotional. 

But Val, of course, wouldn’t have cared about any of that stuff. She’d have made James welcome in her home, fed him up, hugged him when she felt he needed it, and made sure he understood he was one of the family. Put him up for the night in one of the kids’ bedrooms when he’d had a couple of drinks, and sent him off for the day with a packed lunch, no doubt — the same way she’d sent Robbie off with sandwiches for him and Morse a couple of times. Not that Morse had eaten them, though Robbie’d never told Val.

Val would’ve just loved him. Simple as that.

“Sir?” James’s amused tone jolts him out of his thoughts. “Earth calling Inspector Lewis.”

“Oi.” He draws his eyebrows together in the pretence at a frown. “I was listening. You were tellin’ me all about the history of friars.”

James looks secretly pleased, as he always does when he realises that Robbie’s been paying attention to stuff he says. Which is ridiculous, really. Why wouldn’t anyone listen to him? Oh, he’s a walking encyclopaedia sometimes, but it’s amazing what you can pick up just by taking account of what he says — and, often, how he says it.

“Y’haven’t talked about your band much lately,” he says then, the realisation occurring to him. “If you ever need to get away so you can make rehearsals...”

“They know I’ll be there when I can.” James reaches inside his jacket. “We’ve just recorded some new pieces. Want to hear?” He offers Robbie one earbud.

“Go on, then.” 

He listens, walking shoulder to shoulder with James, arms brushing, due to the shortness of the cables. He’s heard James’s group play before, of course, and they make a talented ensemble, but this time he’s focusing on just one instrument: James and his beloved guitar. He’s been remiss; he really should have asked James to play for him, especially after that time his guitar was stolen.

They pause together on the footbridge, leaning against the wooden rails as they continue listening. The music’s not as unusual as the first pieces James let him hear; this is more harmonic and less... well, world-music-like, probably. It’s perfect listening for a late-summer evening, with the sun dipping down beyond the horizon and a pub meal awaiting them once they turn around and stroll the mile or so back to the Vicky Arms.

Right now, though, Robbie’s perfectly content to stand close to James, soaking in the trees, the river below, the glorious shades of yellow and orange and red in the distance, the guitar and cello in his ear, and the solidity of his partner next to him.

James glances at him, a question in his expression, and Robbie smiles in response. Yes, all’s right with the world for the moment, and all the more so for present company.

* * *

Robbie’s stomach is getting ready to rumble, and he’s just about to suggest that they head back to the pub, but James is reaching into his jacket pocket and producing his phone.

Robbie gives him a questioning look — he hadn’t heard it beep — and his eyebrows go up further when James holds the phone out at a distance from the two of them. He leans into Robbie, and then Robbie hears a distinct click. He removes the earbud. “What are you up to?”

James takes out his own earbud. “It’s called a selfie.” The smartarse has gone into lecturing mode, bloody sod that he is. “It refers to taking a photograph of oneself, a process that has been simplified and enhanced given the quality of cameras on smartphones these days.”

Robbie snorts, then looks at James, narrow-eyed. “Hang on, you didn’t just take a photo of yourself. I must’ve been in it, too.”

James glances down at the bridge for a moment, but when he raises his head he’s wearing one of his suspiciously cheeky grins. “Just something to remember you by, sir.”

“Eh? What d’you need to remember me for? Still here, aren’t I?”

“Well...” James starts walking, taking those bloody long strides that mean Robbie has to jog to catch up with him. “You’ll be retiring at some point, and you said you’d be moving to Manchester...”

“It was Lyn suggested that, not me. Haven’t decided if I’ll be goin’ anywhere, so don’t be so quick to shove me away up the M6.” 

And if he doesn’t move to Manchester, at least part of that decision will have to do with the long-legged cleverclogs who’s carefully avoiding looking at him right now, using lighting a cigarette as an excuse. That photo wasn’t just a joke, and that comment about needing something to remember Robbie by revealed a lot more than James intended, judging by the stiff back and taut jaw he can see out of the corner of his eye.

As did what James said earlier, come to think of it. _Who else would... understand me?_

Probably more people than James thinks — but then, that’s not all the lad meant, is it?

* * *

Tucking into a very tasty steak and kidney pudding a short while later, Robbie glances across the table at his sergeant. “So, yeah, I’ll be letting Lyn know I won’t be retiring for a few years yet. Probably should let Innocent know, too. Ended up letting something slip, didn’t I?”

Yes, that’s a distinct look of relief in James’s eyes. “I think Innocent was actually worried about you, sir. She even asked if you’d ever raised your voice to me.”

Robbie snorts. “Cheek of her.” He’s got no need to ask what James had said. If the answer had been yes, Innocent would have mentioned it when he’d apologised to her. “You could’ve told her,” he points out.

James smiles faintly. “How do you know I didn’t?” At Robbie’s sceptical frown, he adds, “I said _only when it was the right thing to do_. Which is not only the truth, but also had the distinct advantage of shutting her up.” He pauses, for what Robbie assumes is deliberate effect. “I was worried she was going to ask whether I’d ever shouted at you.”

Robbie grins. “What, a polite, well-brought-up lad like you? Never!”

James gives one of his half-awkward, half-cheeky shrugs, and applies himself to his sausage and mash — good, plain English food, sir, he’d protested when Robbie’d expressed surprise that he wasn’t opting for something unpronounceable, but then of course it’s the red wine gravy that was the selling-point. After a bit, he coughs and looks at Robbie from under his lashes. “I dare say Dr Hobson will be pleased that you’re not thinking of leaving Oxford in the near future?”

Oh, so it’s Laura he’s concerned about, is it? Not a bit of it, Robbie’d bet. Though he can’t deny the lad’s pushed him in that direction a time or two. _Mis_ direction, he’d guess now. 

He shrugs easily. “Maybe. We’ve been friends a long time, o’course. All the same, if Laura had a reason to move to the other end of the country, an’ it was the right thing for her, I’d wish her well.” He pauses for what he knows is just the right amount of time, and fixes a steady, intent gaze on James. “An’ don’t imagine that means you’d have my blessing if you decided to transfer to Edinburgh, soft lad.”

He doesn’t have to wait long. A stunned, but pleased smile spreads over James’s face. “I wouldn’t dream of it, sir.” His tone’s completely deadpan, of course, but Robbie knows James has understood.

Robbie chews his last bite of steak and kidney and washes it down with the remainder of his pint. He digs into his pocket for his keys and detaches one from the ring, sliding it across the table to James. “Was thinking. I’ll need someone to keep an eye on the flat while I’m in Italy. You mind?”

“I’ll be happy to, of course.” James attaches the key to his own ring. “I’ll take good care of this.”

Robbie waves a hand casually. “Might as well hang onto it. Be handy if you had a spare. Might need someone to check I’ve still got all me marbles from time to time, now I’m going to be a doddering old granddad, eh?”

James’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t take advantage of the free invitation to mock. “I would estimate that your marbles, sir, are in more plentiful supply than at least half the nick.”

“Only half, eh?” Robbie pushes back his chair and stands. “Come on. You’ve got a change of clothes in your car, don’t you?” James’s car, like Robbie’s, is parked outside Robbie’s flat, which is not much more than fifteen minutes’ walk from here, half a mile on the other side of the river. “Y’can stay at mine tonight.” They’re both over the limit, after all. 

The couch, it’ll be, again — which really is too short for James’s lanky legs. Now that he’s definitely decided he’s not leaving Oxford for the foreseeable future, it might be an idea to do something about that. A larger flat — or maybe even a house. It’d be nice to have a proper living space again, somewhere that’s his and not just rented. With a bit of a garden he can potter around in when he’s got time, and where James can go to smoke. And a nice corner in the living-room where James’s guitar could sit when he brings it over to play for Robbie. 

James scoops up his phone from where it’d been resting on the table, and he’s about to put it away when Robbie gestures at it. “Come on, let’s see, then.”

“See what?”

“The photo. If I’m in it, I reserve the right of veto if I think I look stupid.”

James delivers a long-suffering look but, as they make their way outside and back to the river path, he shows Robbie the picture. They’re shoulder to shoulder on the bridge, heads almost touching, James’s bloody earbud cords tying them together as if in some sort of bizarre headfasting, rather than the traditional handfasting. And behind them both, the last echoes of the day’s dying sun, burning orange and red and golden in the distance.

They do look daft. But it’s also perfect. Something, he thinks with a bit of a lump in his throat, to treasure.

“Does it meet with your approval, sir?” James is standing, illuminated in the glow from his phone, one eyebrow raised.

“S’pose it’ll do.” He bumps James’s shoulder. “Best send me it, okay?” James looks puzzled. Robbie just gives him a _catch up, man!_ smile. “Don’t want to forget what you look like while I’m away, do I?”

James’s answering grin shows he has caught on. “Of course, sir. And that’ll be why I don’t have your permission to transfer to Edinburgh CID? Because you’ll forget what I look like.”

“That’ll be it. Knew you were a bright lad.” He rests his hand casually on James’s shoulder. “Home, James. I’ll even let you quote me some more of your Jacobean revenge plays on the way.” 

They stroll on through the quiet paths towards home, James’s deep voice rumbling in Robbie’s ear. “Bacon didn’t only write about revenge, you know. He also said _Seek ye first the good things of the mind, and the rest will either be supplied or its loss will not be felt._ ”

“Oh, aye?” The good things of the mind. That’ll do nicely, for starters. “Tell me more, then...”

As always, James does.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> **The prompt from Red2013:**
> 
> Walk along the Cherwell  
> listening to music  
> a meal  
> admission of feeling towards one another


End file.
